The more distracted from the course she knew she must follow.
He drew her to him with every new facet of his character that she discovered. It had taken her months—nay, years, more like—to know Lord Brien as well.
If she ever had.
But in the case of her husband, she’d found it no hardship to keep her distance from him whenever possible. She’d thought him a crotchety old man the first time they’d met, and marriage to him had done little to change her initial impression.
She’d found it easier to face the more intimate aspects of their union when he himself remained a mystery to her. At night when she sought her bed, she made certain all the candles in her chamber were out, the shutters closed to block out the moonlight, the fire died down to a few glowing coals. She’d been naught but a vessel for her husband’s seed, and she’d done everything she could to maintain that illusion for both of them.
However, until Dermot MacCarthy came into her life, she hadn’t understood what that fact meant to Lord Brien.
They’d met Dermot on several occasions, always among the groups of nobles at some feast or gathering. He’d been charming to all the women, from what she’d seen. Certainly she’d never noticed that he singled her out in any way, nor had he ever done anything—within her sight—to show that he’d any particular interest in Lord Brien FitzGerald’s wife.
In her husband’s eyes he had, she learned later, though to this day she had no idea what that had been. But Lord Brien had become protective of her, attentive to her both inside their bedchamber and outside it.
And each sign of attention her husband lavished upon her made her dislike for him grow stronger.
Her mere tolerance of her situation turned to loathing as he redoubled his efforts to provide himself with an heir.
A legitimate heir.
Despite Moira’s secret hopes to the contrary, her husband took no other women to his bed. It shamed her to recall how she’d prayed, when a new young maid had joined their household, that the girl would capture Lord Brien’s attention and distract him from his wife. That her prayers had been unsuccessful was a blessing her stained soul no doubt did not deserve.
She’d always known Lord Brien desired a son, but she’d begun to suspect he had more reason than the wish to pass on his name. Did he fear that the FitzCliffords might remove him from his position at Gerald’s Keep because of his age? He was their vassal, as well as their kin. Surely they had an obligation to him in return for his homage to them.
“—sit down, milady?” Brigit’s voice, coming from behind her, broke though Moira’s reverie as she climbed the stairs to her solar.
Hand pressed against the smooth plaster wall, Moira stopped and glanced down at the maid. “What is it, Brigit?”
The old woman, huffing for breath, halted at the bottom of the steps. “You must have been lost in your thoughts, milady,” she said, her voice quavering. “I’ve been trying to catch your attention since you came into the hall from outside.”
Guilt sent Moira slowly back down the stairs. “I’m sorry, Brigit.” She took the maid by the arm and led her to a bench at the edge of the hall. “Here, sit and rest.”
Brigit sank onto the long, narrow seat and drew Moira down beside her. “As long as you will as well.”
It did feel good to get off her feet and rest her aching back against the cool stone wall. “′Tis a fine idea you had,” Moira said, sighing in pleasure.
“That it is. And a wise one, too, if you don’t plan to work yourself into labor today. You’re doing too much, milady,” she scolded. “It’s not good for you or the child—and to my mind, ′tis still a mite too early yet for the child to be born, as I’ve told you before.”
Moira leaned toward Brigit and gave the old woman’s hand a squeeze. “I know.” She gazed absently into the hall, where the servants worked at setting up the trestle tables for the midday meal. “I hadn’t realized ′twas so late. I’d thought to rest in my chamber for a bit before dinner.” The night’s exertions had caught up with her, especially since her sleep, once she’d sought her bed for the second time last night, had been far from restful. Worries about a secret passageway into the keep … Nay, be honest, she silently admonished herself. ′Twas thoughts of Connor FitzClifford that had replaced her usual round of worries to haunt her dreams.
She knew she should stand up, be about some business, but decided to wait a little longer before forcing her weary body into motion. Instead she shifted to a more comfortable position on the bench. “You see, I have been listening to you,” she added, smiling at Brigit’s feigned look of surprise.
“I know you do, milady.” The maid patted Moira’s arm, her faded gaze sharp as she looked Moira over from head to toe and back again. “You’re not sleeping well. I can see it in your face.” She picked up Moira’s hands and held them, turning them this way and that. “And see how your fingers have swollen? Your feet are the same, I’d wager.”
Moira nodded. “A little. But ′tis normal for them to do so—isn’t it?” She knew she’d heard of it happening, quite often, now that she considered it.
“Some swelling is usual. But staying on your feet won’t help matters any.” Brigit let go of her hands, and Moira fought the urge to tug her skirts down around her ankles lest the maid take it into her head to examine them as well. “We’ve help aplenty around the place. At least now that Lord Connor’s brought us some real fighting men, we do. Everyone can go back to their own duties.” She shuddered. “We’ve been lucky so far, milady, that Hugh MacCarthy’s left us alone. I hate to imagine how we’d have fared before, if we’d had to defend the place.”
Moira looked up and saw Sir Will weaving his way among the busy servants, heading toward her.
A wide grin brightening his face, he stopped before her and swept her an elaborate bow. “Sir Will, you’ve no need to be so formal,” she chided. Though she knew him for a jokester—and enjoyed his japes and jests—it left her feeling distinctly uncomfortable to be the recipient of his humorous brand of charm. Though ′twas harmless, she knew.
“As you wish,” he said, assuming a serious expression in the blink of an eye. “Milady, I’ve orders from Lord Connor to bring you to him at once.”
She’d not be able to avoid Connor any longer, so it seemed. And try though she might, she couldn’t suppress the surge of heat, of excitement, that thought sent spilling into her veins. Fool! she chided herself. ′Twas folly to allow her emotions to overrule her good sense. Hoping her thoughts didn’t show on her face, she gathered up her skirts to rise from the bench.
Sir Will held out a hand to help her. “Take your time, milady, you needn’t rush.” Once she stood he placed her hand on his arm and led her with great care through the hall.
′Twas all she could do not to laugh by the time they reached the door. “We’ll be at this the rest of the day at this speed,” she told him. “I’ll not collapse at your feet if we move faster, Sir Will—though I appreciate your concern.”
The knight met her gaze, and evidently noticed the amusement she couldn’t quite disguise. “As you wish.” He lifted her hand off his arm and sketched another bow—a brief one this time. “You may set the pace and lead the way, milady.” Lips twitching as he held back a grin, Sir Will raised her arm and cocked it at the elbow, then placed his hand atop it. “Thank you so much for your escort,” he said, his voice pitched high in imitation of a woman’s. “Please, promise you’ll be gentle with me,” he added, fluttering his eyelashes.
Fairly bursting with the need to laugh, Moira waited to speak until they’d begun to descend the stairs and she’d mastered her voice. “You, Sir Will, are a rogue through and through.”
“′Tis a pleasure to make you laugh, milady. Ivor laughs at little, though he’s improving. I’ll wear him down eventually.”
“It must be difficult for you, to be in his company all the time.” She could scarce imagine a worse torture.
“′Tis not so bad. He forces me to think,
to think hard, for how else can I argue with his ridiculous statements?” he asked wryly. “Jests are easy for me. Thinking is more difficult. And I’ve had little practice at it. At l’Eau Clair, no one expects anything of me but smiles and laughter.”
She’d never considered that would be a trial, but it appeared she was wrong. “Your skill is impressive, Sir Will. But I’ve no doubt your mind works with equal talent.”
“Thank you, milady,” he murmured.
“Where am I taking you, by the way?” she asked as they reached the bailey.
“To the undercroft.”
A different excitement coursed through her now. “Connor has discovered something?”
“I’ll let him tell you,” Sir Will said.
Moira hurried to the door into the cellars, Sir Will close on her heels—ready to catch her should she stumble, no doubt, she thought with a smile. ′Twas strange to have such concern directed toward her, but heartening as well.
′Twas another aspect of the different mood prevailing here since Connor’s arrival. The sense of hope, of comfort, of concern … She glanced around the bailey. If she didn’t know better, she could almost believe she’d been magically transported to another place altogether.
A guard stood beside the door, well-armed and stern. He nodded respectfully to her, unlocked the door and opened it for them to enter. The telltale clink of the key turning after he eased the portal closed sounded even through the heavy panel.
Sir Will took a lantern from the pair hanging, lit and ready, on either side of the door. Others lighted along the way chased away the heavy shadows that had lent the cellars such an eerie feeling the previous night.
She followed Sir Will into the narrow passageway, then bumped into him when he came to an abrupt halt. “Pardon me, milady,” he said. He moved back a few paces and gestured for her to go ahead. “If you don’t mind going on alone, you’ll find Lord Connor at the end of this corridor. I nearly forgot that I’ve other tasks yet to carry out.”
The three of them wouldn’t have all fit in the scant space ahead, so ′twas just as well she went on her own.
Besides, now she’d have no audience should she make a fool of herself when she faced Connor again. “I’ll be fine,” she assured the young knight. “Lord Connor will see that I leave here as safely as I came in.”
Sir Will nodded, handed her the lantern and hurried away.
Moira paused near the door, pondering what course to follow when she reached Connor. Should she be cool, polite, remote? She gave a quiet snort of laughter. As if she could! She’d yet to carry herself as a proper lady ought, in Connor’s presence, at any rate. But the image of him this morning, the vulnerability he couldn’t quite hide, had haunted her ever since.
That, and the image of his near nakedness, the sun streaming over his lean, muscular form. That memory alone sent heat flowing through her body.
She had no shame, that much was clear. She smoothed her hand over her burgeoning belly, clanking the lantern against the stone wall in the process. She’d do well to remember how she’d found herself in this condition… and what her interest in Connor FitzClifford might mean to his continued safety.
“Moira, is that you?” Connor asked. The sound of loose debris crunching beneath his boots came closer.
She turned slowly toward the door, using the time to collect herself, to rid her expression of any trace of her unsettling thoughts. “Aye, milord. I’ll be right there.”
He came into view then, hunched over to avoid the ceiling, a lamp in his hand. When he reached her he straightened and smiled, his face alight with excitement. “Come.” He took the lantern from her and set it in the doorway.
“I’ve something to show you.” He took her hand and led her back the way he’d come.
They halted before the same mortared wall Connor had examined the night before. He set the lantern on the floor and knelt. “If I’d looked more closely last night, I’d have found this,” he said. He slipped the dagger from his boot and used it to scrape at the mortar. She could see from the layer of plaster dust covering the dirt floor that he’d been doing this before she arrived. He stopped and turned to her. “Come and see.”
She moved the light aside and leaned closer. Connor picked up a thin metal bar from the floor and used it to pry the stone from the wall—stone no thicker than the width of his dagger blade. “Are they all like that?” she asked. “Is it naught but a disguise?”
“Not all, but many.” He got up off his knees and forced another stone from the wall. “Look at what lies beneath them.”
She touched the flat, plaster-covered surface, then drew her own knife and scratched at the mortar until her blade scraped against metal and wood. “′Tis a door,” she gasped. A very old door, to judge by the splintery condition of the boards and the age-pitted iron holding it together.
“Here, let me take off the other stones,” Connor said.
She stepped back and gave him room to attack the rest of the facade covering the wooden panel.
He removed all but the last row of stones along the bottom of the door; surprisingly, the panel held. But a disquieting thought occurred to her as he raised the bar to complete the job. “Connor,” she called, staying his hand. “What if there is someone waiting on the other side?”
He shook his head, his dark eyes intense in the lantern’s glow. “I’ve had guards mounted on the walls facing the headland, as well as along the cliffs, since soon after I left here last night. I’m sure that whoever we heard then is long gone, and I doubt anyone could get in now without being seen.”
“But shouldn’t we have someone in here—besides yourself—who can fight? In case you’re wrong?”
He sighed. “Anyone there now is a fool. We haven’t been quiet. For all they know, I’ve an army in here—though I could hold this position myself with very little effort if necessary, while you go for help.”
She looked away and sought to overcome her uneasiness. He knew better than she the ways of war, of defense. As he knew his own abilities. She’d trusted him with all else in her life; she could trust him in this.
She met his gaze, imbuing her own with her confidence in him. “Shall I see if I can find a way to open this?” she asked, pointing her knife toward the area where a latch might be.
His eyes drew her in, held a warmth and approval she must surely be imagining. But when he smiled, his expression told a similar tale. Had he needed her approval? How could a man so strong, so skilled, have so little belief in himself?
Those questions would have to wait for another time. For now, she’d do all she could to show her faith in him. “Connor?”
“Aye.” He shoved aside the pile of rocks he’d removed. “Just leave me room enough to take off these last few stones.”
Moira scraped at the mortar where she’d gauged the latch would be, but found nothing beneath it save the wooden panels of the door. She tried another spot, and once Connor had pried off the last of the facade, he used his larger blade to chip at the plaster that filled the gap between the door and its frame.
Connor’s anticipation grew as they uncovered more of the ancient portal. He glanced down at Moira, scraping away with her small knife, and felt a sense of pleasure that under these circumstances should have been completely out of place. But right or wrong, the fact that Moira had accepted his assessment of the situation, had cast off her uncertainty, made him want to smile. The two of them working together felt right. That faced coupled with his growing certainty that they’d found the way the MacCarthys planned to use to conquer them … Perhaps they’d found the way to rout MacCarthy instead.
How could he help but smile?
He slid the dagger blade into the narrow space he’d cleared and felt it catch against a piece of metal near the top of the door. “I think I’ve found it,” he told her. Removing the blade from the gap, he began to scrape at the thick layer of mortar that coated the upper half of the door.
Moira snatched the lantern from the
floor and held it up near him. “Do you want me to help?”
He glanced over at her and saw how tired she looked. By the saints, he should never have sent Will for her; she should be in her chamber, resting. But he knew she wouldn’t leave now. “Only by keeping the light here.” She nodded, and he continued to carefully scrape away the plaster.
Finally he uncovered a lock—crude, but solid. “Now what?” he asked as he used the knife point to clear the keyhole. “I doubt you’ve a key for this.”
Moira handed him the lantern and unhooked the ring of keys from her belt. “There’s nothing here to fit that,” she said. Passing him the keys, she leaned close and peered at the lock, then held out her knife, hilt first, to him. “This should work, don’t you think?” she asked, moving back from the door.
He gave her back the lantern and ring of keys. “Aye.” His own knife clutched in his left hand, hers in his right, he slid her slim blade into the keyhole and, with hard-won patience, wriggled it about within the lock until something snapped. “I hope that wasn’t your knife,” he muttered.
“It doesn’t matter if it is,” Moira replied.
“Ah, but it might—I don’t want the blade stuck in there.” Giving the hilt a gentle turn, he gingerly slid the knife free.
He heard Moira sigh, and turned to find that she’d set the lantern on the floor and stood resting against the far wall of the compact space, her eyes closed. Two short strides brought him to her. “Are you all right?”
She opened her eyes, her lips curving into a smile. “Aye. I’m just relieved—and trying not to hope too much. Perhaps there’s naught on the other side of the door but solid rock.”
He checked the blade of her knife, surprisingly undamaged, and slid it into the sheath on her belt before bending to shove his dagger into his boot. Leaning closer to her, he smoothed the back of his fingers over the velvety softness of her cheek. “If this turns out to be nothing, we’ll find some other way to best them,” he assured her. “I promise you, Moira.” He scanned her face once again in the flickering light. Though her skin looked pale, her blue eyes held relief—and anticipation. Not willing to face the temptation of her lips, he brushed a kiss across her brow. “Come on, let’s see what we’ve uncovered.”
L'eau Clair Chronicles 04 - Lady of the Keep Page 15